We All Live And Die And Slowly Rot In The Castle Where Nobody Gets Out Without Their Head Full of Revived Ghosts: Horror Fiction Book Reviews

 Well, that's a jackassy title.  But, what the hell, it's different, gotta give it that.

Anyway, here's a long, long overdue collection of horror book reviews.  I don't post often, but when I do, I try to give you your money's work, so, there's a lot here!    Since my flaky computer finally connected to the internet for once, I figured I should put this up even if it is Thanksgiving Day.  (Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours, by the way).   I'm also working on a couple more book review posts which will hopefully be put up someday, one on non-fiction books about bikers and badass folks, and, of course, another action-series review post (if you're aching for more of those, don't forget that Glorious Trash is the flagship of such things and is updated way more regularly than us - every Monday and Thursday, by my calculation).  I know I'm slow, but just remember, the longer I take to do it, the longer the post will be when I finally deliver it.  Think of it as getting interest.

In any case, late for Halloween but just in time for Christmas shopping, here are way too many reviews of horror novels and short story collections, both new and vintage.  Most of them are positive because I've been very lucky in my reading lately, not many clunkers.  Few things would make me happier than turning you on to something good, so I hope this does the trick.  They're in no particular order, other than the Shirley Jackson first because I believe a few of these are influenced by her book.  Enjoy, and remember, keep buying paper!

  I did both sides of the paperback because it's got some classic back-cover copy.  Not many horror novels try to make you afraid of the book itself!

We Have Always Lived In The Castle - Shirley Jackson   (Library of America, originally 1962)
Brilliant, beautifully-written tale of haunting strangeness.   A family of eccentrics live in isolation in their old family home on the edge of a town that hates, fears, and bullies them;  they’re simultaneously shunned and an object of curiosity, due to most of the family dying from arsenic in their sugar bowl.   The older sister, Constance, was accused of the crime, and even though she was acquitted the town still thinks she was guilty.   The younger sister, Mary Katherine (known as Merricat) is our narrator, and the only one who ever leaves the grounds of the estate.   She does the shopping while shut-in Constance does the cooking and housekeeping.   Merricat is highly imaginative and semi-feral, always pretending to live on the moon and working her own invented witchcraft to ward off evil.   She’s fascinated with poisonous plants and breaks things when she’s upset.   The two girls take care of their senile Uncle Julian, who spends all his time writing down every detail of the day the family got the arsenic (which he survived, albeit in a permanently-invalid condition).  The three live out a quietly happy existence in their exile from the world until their cousin Charles shows up and disrupts things by trying to drag Constance back into society.   And things only get stranger from there.   It’s technically not a horror novel -- it’s not scary, just spooky -- but it’s so soaked in strangeness and gothic atmosphere that it’s an indispensable  landmark in the horror genre anyway;  you need to experience its mood, its obsession, its separate-from-reality-as-most-know-it characters, and its ability to make an alien world out of familiar things to understand what the root of horror is.  It’s a haunted house novel where the ones doing the haunting are still alive, and where the mad people are the ones with whom we identify.  Merricat is crazy, and she’s taking you with her.   It’s amazing that so much darkness can be woven out of so much sunlight, but Shirley Jackson’s prose is phenomenal enough to do it, and her writing will immerse you in a very weird place that will seem every bit as real as the one you live in.   A masterpiece which only gets better with repeated readings, so invest in a good edition.  The Library of America version is a helluva bargain, also including The Haunting of Hill House and her best short stories, and I consider it an indispensable part of any respectable library.

Where We Live and Die - Brian Keene    (Lazy Fascist Press, 2015) 
I like reading about writing.  Danse Macabre is my favorite Stephen King book, with On Writing a close second.   One Writer’s Beginnings is my favorite Eudora Welty.   Hell, I even watch The Waltons just because John Boy wants to be a writer.  So, when this collection of Brian Keene’s stories about the writing life came out I was doubly psyched because (A) writing! and (B) it has “The Girl On The Glider” in it, which I’ve wanted to read ever since he once mentioned it to me on Twitter when I asked if he’d ever seen a ghost.  It came out as a small press special edition that I didn’t buy because it was $11,000.   Okay, it wasn’t really, but for my cheap ass it may as well have been.   So, I waited it out... and it was worth the wait.   It’s a very spooky non-fiction piece on Keene’s house being haunted by a girl killed in a car wreck near his driveway.  It’s not only spooky -- it has a deep lesson, and it’s some of Keene’s finest writing.  If you did pay that $11,000 you got your money’s worth, so there’s no excuse a’tall for not snagging it here for only $13, with extra stories.   Also included is “Musings,” which is in the form of nonfiction but veers away from it into a strange fantasy.  Appropriately for a book about writing, Keene tells a lot of truth with a lie.  That’s what most good fiction is about, anyway, right?   It’s about meeting three girls and even though it didn’t happen it’s very honest... which may sound like it doesn’t make sense, but read it and you’ll see that it does.   “Golden Boy” is about a kid whose bodily waste is all gold, which is a curse wrapped in a blessing and a nice quick metaphor.   “The Eleventh Muse” is a horror story about a writer battling writer’s block and other frustrations.  “House of Ushers” is a gruesome tale of an escape attempt from Hell and it has little to do with writing, but it’s still good so you won’t catch me bitchin’.  Round things out with a beat poem and some well-chosen writer’s tips and you have a collection that’s well worth seeking out.

Slowly We Rot - Bryan Smith   (self-published, 2015)
I’ve always been a fan of Bryan Smith’s books but even I was surprised at how great this one is; it’s deeper and more mature than the splatterfests he usually writes (and don’t get me wrong -- those are great splatterfests that would do even Richard Laymon proud).  But this, this is something a step above, and I wasn’t expecting it (especially since the title comes from my favorite Obituary song, and this is more a Solitude Aeturnus kind of book).   It’s a zombie novel, but like no other zombie novel you’ve ever read;  it’s more akin to The Road than it is Dawn of the Dead.    Set years after a zombie apocalypse, most of mankind is dead, and the zombies they turned into have rotted away.   Noah is a guy living in a cabin in the Smoky Mountains, spending his days smoking weed, reading old Westerns, and going a little stir-crazy.  It’s been years since he’s seen a zombie or another living person.  Then his sister, who he’d thought was dead, shows up and demands he leave the cabin; she’d spent years as the captive sex slave of a cop and unreasonably blames Noah for not having rescued her.   Noah decides he’ll go looking for his old girlfriend in California, just to have a goal.   I’d love to tell you more but I don’t want to spoil a great book, so here are just a few tidbits; even though the zombies are no longer plentiful, they’re still around and dangerous.  And the people he meets are even worse (there’s a truly harrowing passage where Noah’s chained up by a sadistic old pervert who’s been raping a girl he caught and plans to do the same to Noah).   And, if the living and the dead weren’t enemy enough, Noah is a massive alcoholic who rediscovers booze and is soon in a losing battle with it; in a world of menaces to his well-being, he can‘t help making himself into yet another one.  At times hellish, sometimes melancholy, and always brilliantly written and sparing the reader nothing, this is one of the deepest zombie novels ever and something very different in a genre that I thought had been overplayed.  Really good stuff and very highly recommended.

A Head Full Of Ghosts - Paul Tremblay   (William Morrow, 2015)
Excellently-written, creepy demonic possession story with a complex structure and a very engaging narrator who makes this book owe as much to Shirley Jackson’s We Have Always Lived In The Castle as it does to Blatty’s The Exorcist (if not more so).   It reads like a tribute to both books while maintaining its own voice so it’s not a pastiche of either.   Merry Barrett, who tells the story both as her adult self and as the 8-year-old she was when it happened fifteen years earlier, runs a blog (under a pseudonym, as all the best blogs are, wink wink) that reviews horror movies.   One thing she reviews in depth is a reality show called The Possession, which she’s obsessed with for a good reason --- she was in it.   When she was eight, her fourteen-year-old sister Marjorie started exhibiting extremely creepy behavior, saying terrible (and insightful) things, vomiting spectacularly, and having convulsions -- all the signs of demonic possession.     Her father was desperately out of work and a religious nut, so he invited a film crew into their home to make a show around his daughter’s exorcism.   Young and very imaginative Merry (who is reminiscent of Merricat in We Have Always Lived In The Castle -- I’m sure her name’s a wink at the reader on Tremblay’s part) tries to make sense of the whole nightmarish situation.  Marjorie alternately terrorizes Merry and tells her that she’s faking it all to manipulate the ridiculous grown-ups... but Marjorie is really hard to trust and if she’s faking it then she’s good at it well beyond her years.    Meanwhile, her parents are becoming crazier, too, and the situation heads toward tragedy.  Inventively mingling the story with commentary on itself, Tremblay gives depth to what could have just been another possession tale.   Merry’s observations are brilliantly done and he captures that smart-eight-year-old filter skillfully, making it all seem even scarier because, through the narrator, the reader’s brought down to a child’s level.   A definite must-read.  Run, don’t walk to pick this one up.

No One Gets Out Alive - Adam Nevill    (St. Martin’s Press, 2015)
This blockbuster is like two horror novels in one; a great one and a pretty-good one.   The first mostly deals with the horror of not having options, and has a vibe like Bentley Little’s best books, where someone’s gotten themselves into a situation that should be a normal part of life, but which just gets more and more nightmarish as it goes.   Young Stephanie is woefully underemployed and, having ended things with her boyfriend, has to move into a cheap apartment.   The place is really shabby and filthy (Nevill’s great at describing this, and I unfortunately recognize many details from my own house!)  and she is also disturbed by ghostly voices and movements, including a muttering under the bathtub and scratching under the bed.   She wants to get out but her insidiously creepy (and at first almost comically sleazy) landlord is uncooperative, and all her appeals to friends fall flat because they’re in dire straits themselves.  She senses men with horrible body odor outside her door, and girls in other apartments sound like they’re being raped.   Then her landlord’s cousin -- a giant mean-spirited psychotic  - shows up and things get even worse.  Stephanie learns that the place is a brothel and her landlords (maybe the scariest literary pair since the mountain men in Deliverance) are keeping her prisoner and demanding that she work in it... or get killed, which is a fate that the other girls are meeting on a regular basis.   And then -- if you can believe this -- things become even more horrific as the living dead become a factor.   The chapters between 50 and 56 run you through the funhouse and spare you nothing; it’s an assault of the darkest, nastiest imagery you’re likely to encounter.   I read (and write) a lot of horror and some of it still managed to wallop me.   Then there’s a climax... and the book starts over again and becomes a more conventional supernatural horror novel, with a badly-traumatized Stephanie (now rich from books and movies about her experience) trying to start a new life, but not being allowed to by the vengeful “Black Maggie” fertility goddess that was behind much of her misery.   This is a must-read even though it does have flaws.  It’s bloated by too many details that slow it down (it’s especially hard to get into -- even some of the prose in the early chapters is uncharacteristically clumsy for Nevill), and then ends up wearing you out with too much chaos, throwing SO MUCH horror at you that you get numb to it, and the story starts getting lost in more and more ghost-visions.   Overall, there’s not much control of the pacing, which is mostly due to the overlength... but when it works, it REALLY works, and more than rewards you for riding out the rough spots.   The atmosphere is heavy and filthy, and has a palpable sense of desperation that builds into dread as it piles up.  And you’ll have a tough time finding villains more frightening than the landlords, Knacker and Fergal.  They’re so well-drawn have with so much presence it feels like they may step off the page... and you really wouldn’t like it if they did.    So, even though it’s overlong (it could honestly be pared of almost a forth of the material) and the aftermath stuff is a little too conventional and anticlimactic after the “nine days of hell,” dealing with the drawbacks is so worthwhile as to be a no-brainer.  Like House of Small Shadows, even a book that’s not Nevill’s best is still better than 90% of what most horror writers are turning out nowdays.   If you're not reading Nevill, you're falling behind.   Recommended.

For more Nevill reviews, see House of Small Shadows , Banquet For The Damned, Last Days,  and the one to start with if you haven't read Nevill before, The Ritual.

Revival - Stephen King   (Scribner, 2014)
Excellent creepiness from Stephen King concerns a preacher who suffers a crisis of faith when his wife and child are killed.   After delivering a blasphemous (but all-too-true) sermon, he loses his job and devotes himself to the only faith he has left -- studying the mysteries of electricity.  He discovers a form of electricity that has healing powers and uses it to cynically reinvent himself as a faith healer, mostly to avail himself of guinea pigs.   Most of the healings work, but they’re not quite miracles; they usually have bad side effects down the road.   Our narrator, Jamie Morton, was six years old when he met the Reverend Charlie Jacobs, and was later “healed” by him when he grew up to be a strung-out rhythm guitarist, killing himself with heroin.   Jamie is ill-fated to aid and abet Rev. Charlie’s increasingly-sinister goals, and will learn far more than anyone can stand to know about the nature of death.  Contradicting an earlier King work, perhaps dead is not better.   Compelling in its narrative and incredibly dark in its implications, this is one of King’s strongest horror works in quite a while, and it’s riveting enough that I considered cashing in some personal leave time from work just so I wouldn’t have to put it down for nine hours.   It’s one of those books that makes you wonder how the hell King can write so well, while never taking you out of the story,. And while it’s not totally free of the “Stephen King Bad Idea” that has compromised other otherwise-excellent King novels (such as Duma Key’s ridiculous ending, which makes that one 3/4ths of a classic), it’s pretty small here (in the form of a giant leg coming out of the sky that has a claw made of baby’s faces... seriously, dude?  You're lucky I love ya so much...) and it’s not bad enough to put more than a scratch in a four-star read.  Very highly recommended.

Nyctophobia - Christopher Fowler       (Solaris, 2014)
Nyctophobia is the fear of the dark, a condition suffered by Callie, the narrator of this newest effort from horror veteran Fowler.   Sexual abuse by her father left Callie psychologically fragile, and she has a history of anorexia and cutting herself.  At first her family moving into Hyperion House seems like a good idea; it's an architectural marvel built in Spain, placed against the side of a cliff so the strategically-placed windows of the front take in all the sunlight possible, while the back rooms against the cliff -- which have been locked for decades -- are in perpetual darkness, without electricity.   Since her husband Mateo is gone away on business a lot, Callie is often left with her stepdaughter Bobbie and a couple of old servants, a housekeeper who resists any attempt at exploring the closed-off rooms and a tongueless gardener (who grabs her hand and shoves it in his mouth so she can feel the nub where it was cut off!) .   Callie starts thinking someone's living in the darkened part of the house, and can hear a girl crying behind the locked doors.   A little girl gets attacked at a birthday party and is found scratched up in one of the dark rooms.  Other weird things happen, like Callie imagining her husband is being attacked by hornets, and sightings of a withered ghost woman in a smiling porcelain mask.  Callie has a background in architecture so she starts researching the house, uncovering strange secrets about its design (it was apparently built by sun-worshiping cultists who aligned it with the stars) and the family who lived there (the mother went insane, killed her children, and lived with their corpses for years).   She thinks that the ghosts from the dark side want to possess her family so they can live in the light, but the real truth may be even more horrifying.  Moody, creepy horror has some effective scares and dark revelations, and the premise -- while borrowing a few things from The Shining and The Others, and maybe a bit of The Haunting of Hill House -- is original.  It gets undone from time to time when Callie’s sanity gets slippery and makes the narrative verge on chaotic, but overall it’s well worth reading.

The Sea of Ash - Scott Thomas   (Lovecraft E-Zine Press, 2009)
“Quaintly creepy” sounds like a weird concept but it’s what comes to mind reading this indie-published novella.  In 88 pages of huge print and a good deal of blank space we’re led by a rather effete narrator on a quest to retrace the steps of a Victorian ghost-hunter, and, later, a doctor who also tried to follow him, seeking out some unknown supernatural manifestation.   Working from the doctor’s obscure diary, our narrator runs into all sorts of strange craziness.   The doctor, a Dr. Pond, had found a naked and apparently dead woman on the beach and brought her home, where she miraculously revived.   Then she had a dead baby with a seashell for a face.   Upon removing the shell he found a hole of a depth of sixty feet or so.  From that he fished up a note that sent him on a quest, previously undertaken by the Victorian, Mr. Brinklow.  And our narrator (who seems far too timid for such a quest) follows Pond’s diary.   This story throws loads of bizarre, very original imagery at you.   Some is silly (fossilized trilobites for teeth and fingernails), some hideously creepy (the dead baby melting into a wad of molasses-like rot that attacks a man’s face, a drowned sea captain washing up with his mouth stuffed with hair, a guy growing a third arm out of his chest), and much of it amazingly able to balance between both (like Fractured Harry, a ghost that puts together odds and ends to make itself a body; something with a teakettle for a head, mop legs, and hands that are gloves full of bees should be laughable, but somehow isn’t; and a barrel of leaves with other things shuffling around in it is also goofy-creepy).   The story gets a bit disjointed but stays interesting by always putting some new weird image in front of you.  The writing is very good and almost poetic, even if it does go a bit overboard on trying to sound archaic.   Despite a few drawbacks this is well worth seeking out for infusing originality into a Lovecraft/M. R. James type of tale, and it’s only going to take a couple of hours at most to read, so, why not?   Definitely worth the time.

Out Are The Lights - Richard Laymon   (BCA (hardback) or Warner Brothers (paperback), 1982)
Early Richard Laymon novel that really blew me away when I first read it when I was fifteen years old, in a garage in Pensacola Beach, Florida (in a house that no longer exists, thanks to Hurricane Ivan).  When I chanced upon a hardback edition for $5 I figured it was due for a re-read.   Laymon finds a near-perfect outlet for his gory skills in this tale of snuff filmmakers who produce short horror films starring a maniac named Schreck (an homage to the guy who played Nosferatu, no doubt), who saves money on special effects by murdering girls for real.   The people who see the Schreck shorts between double features at The Haunted Palace don’t know they’re watching actual killings that have been dubbed over with new voices to help conceal the identities of the mostly-rootless-and-non-local victims.  But then Connie, a deaf girl who’s an expert lip-reader, sees one of the films and knows what the victims are actually saying... which means the jig is up, IF Connie can survive to tell anyone.   But since this is a Laymon novel, survival isn’t a certainty.   Besides all of the snuff film mayhem (which includes axe murders, cannibalism, bitten-out throats, forks in the eyes, and more) there’s another plot involving Connie’s ex-boyfriend’s affair with a very sick-minded woman;  it’s almost a noir plotline running parallel to the horror one.   The writing is stripped bare and raw;  Laymon tells you the tale like the transcript of a splatter film, free from any look-how-nice-I’m-writing stuff that would get in the way, and it’s effective.   It’s not Laymon’s best, but there’s really no bad Laymon, and it delivers all the sex and violence you’d want.  The hardback also includes five excellent short stories: “Mess Hall” (this one gives you a sadistic serial killer AND flesh-eating zombies; it jams the accelerator to the firewall on the first page and never eases up on it), “Dinker’s Pond” (a gruesomely humorous tall tale of a couple of prospectors fighting over a woman), “Madman Stan” (a psycho who’ll get you if you leave your doors unlocked), “Bad News” (a vicious rat-like thing comes with the morning paper), and “The Tub” (a woman cheating on her husband gets stuck under her lover when he has a heart attack and dies on top of her while they’re screwing in the bathtub;  this one’s got an ingenious and highly gruesome ending).   As Laymon novels go you can find better (try Night in the Lonesome October or The Traveling Vampire Show for just a couple of examples) but you’ll still have a gory good time with this.  Even though plenty of people have followed in his gruesome footsteps, Laymon is still sorely missed.

The Wasp Factory- Iain  Banks     (Simon & Schuster, 1984)
Very strange semi-horror novel on the “literature” end of the scale.  Maybe I’ve just got We Have Always Lived In The Castle on the brain, but this seems inspired by it;  the narrator, a 16-year-old young man named Frank (whose genitals were supposedly bitten off by a bulldog when he was a baby) is part of an odd family (some of whom he’s murdered) and, like Merricat from ...Castle, he has built up a vast personal mythology and wards off evil by nailing up totems of dead animals.  They don’t work too well, I guess, because Frank’s even-crazier brother Eric has escaped from an asylum (where he was placed for setting dogs on fire and feeding worms to children) and is making his way home.   He calls Frank with insane progress reports, most of which end with the sounds of Eric smashing up the phone booth.   While waiting for Eric’s return, Frank works on some of his own bizarre hobbies, such as using small animals for ammo in a giant slingshot, or blowing up rabbit warrens (Frank is very fond of explosives) and then frying the rabbits with a homemade flamethrower.  He also tries to tell the future using an elaborate torture chamber he’s constructed for wasps he catches.  While all of this is going on, Frank recounts the strange ways he murdered three of his young relatives, including the brother he fooled into trying to ring a bell that was actually an unexploded bomb from the war, or the snake he put in one cousin’s artificial leg, and another who he tied to a giant kite and sailed off for god-knows-where!  This isn’t the kind of book you read for plot, because there really isn’t much, and it’s not too suspenseful waiting for Eric to come home (because, really, how much worse can he be than Frank, who thinks he’s sane?);  mostly it’s Frank explaining his totems (such as the skull of the dog who emasculated him)  or hanging out drinking with his dwarf friend Jamie.  There is a surprise at the end, but mostly you read it for the writing, and for the character study of a bizarre individual.   Many find this a disturbing book (all of the animal violence upset readers in Banks’ native Scotland) but I found it blackly humorous and hard to take seriously.   In any case, it’s well worth a read;  I don’t know if I’d call it one of the 100 best horror novels ever written, as Stephen Jones & Kim Newman’s book has labeled it, but it’s still one to check out.

The Boss in the Wall:  A Treatise on the House Devil - Avram Davidson and Grania Davis   (Tachyon, 1998)
This unique, highly-creepy short novel was the final work of noted sci-fi/fantasist Davidson, put together and finished years after his death by his ex-wife, Davis.   It’s a strangely-structured, jumbled semi-documentary/narrative about a horror that inhabits the walls of old houses and goes by many names -- the Paper Man, Hyett, Hetter, Greasy-Man, Stringfellow, Rustler, Clicker, House Devil, Boss In The Wall.  They may be zombies or old Confederate solders or derelicts suffering from some horrible disease... no one really knows, but they’re thin, greasy, mummified, astoundingly filthy things with bits of old newspaper stuffed into places where their flesh is missing.  They’re seldom seen but are no urban legend, since certain libraries do have pieces of their bodies, and mind-shatteringly disturbing photographs of them do exist.  Encounters with them have left people mad or missing limbs that had to be amputated after their bites went septic.   The whole thing is in the form of a professor Vlad Smith’s search for information about them after a rustling and stench in an old house results in his daughter entering a catatonic state, which someone tells him means the Boss in the Wall took her soul and he has to get it back.   I’ve read this novella twice and still can’t fully keep up with its flow, but it doesn’t matter;  the constant barrage of creepiness, presented as factual evidence, is nearly overpowering and will leave you paranoid about any odd sounds in your house.  There’s nothing else quite like this and describing it is a futile exercise;  you’ll have to experience it for yourself.   The Tachyon book is now quite pricey, but luckily it was reprinted in The Mammoth Book of Best New Horror Volume 10 and used copies of those are quite reasonable.  Very strange.

Bigfoot Beach - Kristopher Rufty    (Lazarus Press, 2015)
Not to be confused with the Shakespeare play of the same name, this is a Sasquatch-based horror novel from goremeister Rufty, author of The Lurkers.   I didn't like The Lurkers much but didn't think Rufty was a bad writer, so I wanted to give him another chance (especially since I have kind of a Bigfoot fetish).   Well, I still don't think Rufty's really a bad writer, but I close-to hated this thing and had to force myself to keep reading it out of sheer stubbornness.    Rufty’s prose is good (other than a tendency to slow things down with too many unnecessary details, but I catch myself doing that when I write, too... but, then, I’m an amateur without an editor) but the story quickly becomes tedious and a lot of the killings are just stupid.   If you enjoy Troma movies maybe they wouldn’t insult your intelligence (but then if you enjoy Troma movies there’s very little that can), but... a guitar shoved up somebody’s ass?   A torn-off arm thrown through somebody’s chest so when it comes out the other side the hand’s holding the guy’s heart?  Bigfoot somehow reaching a paw bigger than a guy’s head down his throat to yank stuff out?   I was hoping for Richard Laymon and instead I got Tex Avery.   Anyway, the plot has a guy bringing his kids to a seaside town where he’ll serve as a deputy under his sheriff brother.  The town’s desperate for tourist money so it’s trying to exploit local sightings of a Bigfoot.   The Bigfoot in question has a nasty rash all over its body, and a girl it kidnapped fell in love with it and is pregnant with its child.   Mostly, though, it just kills anyone it encounters in various cartoonishly-gory ways, and the rest of the time the book’s mired in domestic situations that seem to have no end.   It goes on far too long (there’s not nearly enough story for 326 pages) and the Bigfoot’s made too familiar -- it might as well be some big, mute surfer guy.   And the end, with a Rambo-like Bigfoot hunter named Striker (because why the fuck not at this point, right?) leading citizens to hunt a wounded Bigfoot through an abandoned miniature golf course is far fetched and so confusing that the action’s slowed to a crawl just when it should be going into high gear.  Like I said, Rufty’s prose isn’t bad, and maybe it’s unfair of me to expect a book called Bigfoot Beach not to be cartoonish, but... this was a chore.  If your tolerance for silliness in horror novels is higher than mine (and it probably is, since mine is admittedly near zero) then you may like this more, but, sorry, this one wasn’t for me, despite Bigfoot.

Waiting Out Winter - Kelli Owen    (Gypsy Press, 2011)
Apocalyptic novella in which the government tries to control a plague of tent worms by releasing a bunch of biting black flies.  Unfortunately the government screws up and the flies are infected with a very contagious plague, and soon people and animals are infected and dying.  Brothers-in-law Nick and Jerry return from a long hunting trip to find their hometown on lockdown, with everyone hiding in their homes to avoid the flies.   They have to forage for supplies, burn the dead, and fight off sick wolves to survive the winter, knowing the flies will come back in the spring and their long-term chance for survival is bleak.  The writing is good, although after a point it stops reading like a narrative and more like reporting, and it’s more of a situation than a story with real drama.  It’s not bad at all, just a bit too straightforward to be very intriguing;  it could use more characterization and action to draw the reader in.  The only real tension is provided by the wolf attack.  Since it’s a 70-page novella, though, it won’t take much more than an hour of your time, and it’s very inexpensively priced, so it could be worth it for fans of end-of-the-world scenarios.   A sequel, Hatch, is available.

The Creek - Chris Hedges    (Gallows Press, 2012)
Fast-moving novella, styled a bit after Stephen King’s “The Body,” in which two boys, Charlie and Sam, are playing in the local creek when they meet a girl their own age who’s out collecting fossils.   They make friends with her but then there’s an accident, which they tragically make worse.   Also included is a related short story about Sam’s abusive home life, and an interesting interview with the author.  It’s a fairly simple tale and the prose has a few awkward moments, but overall it’s nicely done and easily holds the reader’s interest for the brief time it takes to read.  Not bad at all.

Maynard’s House - Herman Raucher  (Berkley, 1980)
Strange, immersive, and haunting, this is a minor horror classic to the few who’ve read it, thanks to the excellent writing and uniquely-weird atmosphere.   A troubled, rootless, and moody young Vietnam veteran named Austin comes to the Maine backwoods to take possession of a cabin willed to him by an army buddy who was killed in action... but the house takes possession of Austin instead.  He’s out of his element among the wisecracking New Englandahs... but you get the feeling that Austin has no element;  he’s probably an odd fit back home, too, which is why the idea of living by himself in the wilderness appeals to him.   A friendly local takes him to the cabin, explaining the basement is the remains of a witch’s house that stood there originally, a flat rock nearby is where the devil comes to dance, and he should be on the lookout for Minnwickies -- small, mischievous, and possibly-supernatural Indians.   Austin finds plenty of supplies and spends his days reading Thoreau and his buddy Maynard’s writings, and talking to a girl named Ara, a beautiful 16-year-old smartass who plays pranks on him with her brother (they consider themselves Minnawickies).   But Austin gets snowbound and in the isolation, things get weird.   There’s not much overt menace (Austin gets chased by a witch’s hat at one point but I wouldn’t count that as too threatening) and not a whole lot really happens until the chaotic climax, and yet the book builds a creepy, unsettling spell and puts the reader inside it with Austin.   You don’t really know what’s happening any more than he does but you feel a constant low hum of dread, and wonder if the threat is something external and supernatural, or Austin’s wounded psyche souring in an environment that’s bad for it.   Cerebral and literary horror that should have a larger audience.

Feral - Berton Rouche   (Avon, 1974)
“Critter” horror about what could happen if careless people dump their unwanted cats to fend for themselves.   Jack and Amy Bishop are one such thoughtless couple who learn the (t)error of their ways when they move to a Long Island community that’s infested with feral cats, so mutated from generations in the wild that they’ve become larger and more aggressive than average, and there are hundreds of them.  It’s a pretty simple, straightforward, meat-and-no-potatoes book, with a few locals falling victim to the vicious cats before Jack and his neighbors take up shotguns and go on a big cat round-up.  And that’s basically it.  The writing is pretty good and there’s plenty of action, but it’s pretty repetitive, just a lot of cats getting blasted.   The human body count is low, while the cat body count is ridiculous -- I’m not sure how a small ecosystem like that could support around 500 cats without them all starving, especially since they’d already made short work of the birds, rats, and other fauna.   Nothing special and pretty mild for a “critter horror” book (which tend to be gorefests) but it’s surprisingly short (124 pages, albeit with small print) and it does deliver a cats-on-the-rampage tale, as promised, so there’s little to complain about.

For another review of Feral, and for all kinds of paperback horror goodness in general, I refer you to the always-excellent Too Much Horror Fiction blog, which also sports several alternate covers.

For more critter horror reviews in general, I've got some of those for ya - here and here and here and here
, and hopefully more someday - I'm 'bout due to read some more of those.

“Down By The Highway Side” by Paul R. MacNamee in A Lonely & Curious Country - ed. by Matthew Carpenter  (Ulthar Press, 2015)
Okay, gird yer loins for a couple of full disclosures:
DISCLOSURE ONE:  I haven’t read the whole book yet.  I’ve only read one story, so I’m only reviewing that story at this time.   I shall surely read more of the book later on because it looks like a really good one, but for now, we have time constraints, and I’m odd with short story collections;  I seldom read them straight through.  My preferred method is to usually read one or two stories, then move on to another anthology and read one or two there.    So, all I’m reviewing is “Down By The Highway Side” by Paul R. MacNamee.  Which, really, is fair enough because his story is the reason I bought the book.
DISCLOSURE TWO:  I know Paul from way back in the day.  He’s even been to my house  before, so, Paul's a  good dude, we cool.  But, don’t let that make you think I’m giving the story a good review just because it’s by a friend.  Me liking you will get your book read and it’ll keep me from dogging you out if I thought it was bad, but I bought the book without telling anyone and therefore had no pressure or obligation; if the story had sucked, I could’ve (and would’ve) just said nothin’.  So, I’m sincere in telling you it’s good stuff.  And very good stuff indeed!   I love Lovecraft, I love the blues, and I love stories that combine the two (and I can prove it -- remember Southern Gods?   It was Robert W. Chambers instead of Lovecraft, but still, close enough!)
Disclosures done, this is a finely-tuned tale of a burned-out, used-up-all-his-luck country singer who meets a young bluesman on a bus ride who has a guitar touched by Nyarlathotep, which can reach a powerful note that he really shouldn’t play.  And I won’t give away any more than that, but, it’s a good idea and very well-handled.   I’m sure there are other great stories in this book, and I’ll count them as bonuses.  Check it out.
And you can and should follow Paul on Twitter.

Best Ghost Stories
- ed. by Marcus Clapham    (Collector’s Library, 2010)
As I just said, I don’t usually read short story collections straight through, but I picked away at this one long enough to complete it, so I figured I’d review it.   I love these Collector’s Library books.  The quality is really nice -- they’re designed like Library of America books, with the same cloth covers and ribbon bookmark, plus some nice gilt edging, but about half the size, and very inexpensive.  They’re just really neat little things to have in your library.  And the stories are classics.   If you’re as into horror short story anthologies as I am you probably have most of these stories already, but the presentation makes it worth buying an “upgrade.”  This book was almost all a re-read for me (a few of these stories I’ve probably read a dozen times) but, unless I get hit by a bus, it won’t be the last time I read ‘em, either.   Here are the contents:
“The Tapestried Chamber” - Sir Walter Scott
“The Signalman” - Charles Dickens
“The Shadow In The Corner” - M. E. Braddon
“Strange Events In The Life of Schalken The Painter” - Sheridan Le Fanu
“The Body-Snatcher” - Robert Louis Stevenson
“The Phantom Rickshaw” - Rudyard Kipling
“Man-Size In Marble” - Edith Nesbit
“Canon Alberic’s Scrapbook” - M. R. James
“The Brown Hand” - Arthur Conan Doyle
“The Watcher By The Threshold” - John Buchan
“’Oh, Whistle, and I’ll Come To You, My Lad’” - M. R. James
“The Screaming Skull” - F. Marion Crawford
“Laura” - Saki
“The Tractate Middoth” - M.R. James
“Brickett Bottom” - Amyas Northcote
“Naboth’s Vineyard” - E. F. Benson
I’m going to resist the urge to review every story (you can probably track down all of them online if you'd like to sample them), but I’ll just chat with you a minute about some of the highlights, just to whet your appetite.   You get three M. R. James stories (Collector’s Library also has a volume of just his stuff, and getting that one is a no-brainer if you ask me) and they’re both strong ones.   “Oh Whistle” is one of the creepiest damn things you’ll ever read, with a unique horror that will give you a fear of sleeping in a room with an empty bed and make you hesitant to pick up things you find by the seaside.  If it's not the greatest ghost story ever told, then it's definitely on the short list, duking it out with only one or two other contenders.  And “Tractate Middoth” is library-horror at its best, with a truly horrible cobweb-eyed ghost-thing in the stacks.   And the thing in "Canon Alberic's Scrapbook" provides an amazing shock-effect on paper.  Your skin will crawl.   “The Brown Hand” involves a certain anatomical specimen whose owner wants it returned, and that’ll give you some bad dreams, buddy.   Anything by E. F. Benson is a must-read, and “Naboth’s Vineyard” is fairly typical of his work, but “typical” in Benson’s case is still better than most can turn out.   “The Tapestried Chamber” has a really creepy ghost, and “Watcher By The Threshold” involves a bizarre case of possession in which only one side of the body is affected.  Very strange, that one.   And “The Screaming Skull” is one of the eeriest stories you’ll ever read, an old-school heavyweight.  I first read that on in the essential Great Tales of Terror and the Supernatural when I was about eight years old, and it messed me up pretty good.  “Brickett Bottom” handles some vague strangeness very well; two girls walking near their summer home spot a house they’ve never noticed before (or at least one does; the other’s too nearsighted to really see it) and when one tries to visit it, she doesn’t come back.   Spooky.  And Dickens’ “The Signalman”... I re-read that one every few months and the atmosphere gets me every time.  Really, there’s not a bad story here, and they’re all stories any student of horror should have inscribed in their DNA.   So snag this book and Collector’s Library’s similar volumes already.

Songs of  a Dead Dreamer and Grimscribe - Thomas Ligotti   (Penguin Classics, 2015)
I'm cheating a bit here, because I haven't read this entire book.  Or at least I haven't re-read it;  I've read most of the stories a time or two (or more).   But it's only morally wrong to give bad reviews to books you haven't finished, and since I'm not about to do that, I'll proceed, because I want you to get yourself a copy of this immediately.   Thomas Ligotti is to our era what H. P. Lovecraft was to his, and if you're a horror reader and are missing out on him, that just makes me sad.   Unfortunately, a lot of his work was out of print for a while (unjustly!) and was quite pricey, so now that the excellent people at Penguin Classics have done the world a great favor and put out a very nice reprint of two of his books in one, and at the beautiful price of around $13 if you get it at Amazon, I'm going to scream at you... BUY THIS!  I beseech you.  If you aren't familiar with Ligotti, well, he writes like no one else.  There are plenty of other people trying (hell, I've tried myself) but it just can't be done.   Ligotti has a bizarre ability to make you think you've experienced the things he writes about, or at least dreamed of them, and have buried the memory.  He writes directly to your subconscious, and I don't know how he does it.   Ramsey Campbell is also skilled in this area, and is about the closest writer I can compare Ligotti to, but Ligotti is even more dreamlike and bizarre.  He'll scare you and you won't be certain what you're scared of.  He'll make your brain itch.  He'll make you feel like you've just woken up from a bad night.  I swear things show up in his stories that are familiar to me from my own nightmares, and I don't know how he got them.  It's enough to make me think of wrapping my head in tinfoil...   There are all kinds of classics-to-be here, from "The Last Feast of Harlequin," (where a man researching clowns attends a festival that's more than he imagined) to "The Music of the Moon" (involving  a man attending a musical performance that's very strange; this one will push buttons inside of your mind and give you a creeping unease that'll be hard to shake).   I always feel like I've dreamed "The Night School" instead of read it, and "The Glamour" creates the same feeling.  "The Frolic" takes something as mundane as a serial killer and infuses a liquid-nitrogen chill in it again, all through language, and "The Lost Art of Twilight" manages to revitalize that most-tired of all horror cliches:  vampires.   I could go on and on, but I wouldn't be able to do Ligotti's work justice, and wouldn't be able to describe the effect these stories have on you;  they're almost a drug as much as they are words on a page.   You will read these again and again and again.  Also recommended is Teatro Grottesco,  another modestly-priced still-in-print collection of Ligotti's work, which includes several of my all-time favorite stories which aren't included here, such as "The Clown Puppet" and "Gas Station Carnivals."  It's my hope that someday Library of America will collect Ligotti's complete works and keep them in print, but until then much appreciation must go to Penguin Classics for giving us this beautiful collection.  You can't afford not to have this in your library.   I have the hardbacks and I still bought it, just because Penguin always does such a nice job.

Until next time, follow me and a bunch of other people on Twitter.   If you'd just like to look at more book covers, this and this are still pretty fun.  And if you need anything else to read, horror wise, please partake of these -- I could always use the feedback.   Hopefully another story will be forthcoming before too much longer, as well.


The Night Is Filled With Maniacs

Here we go with another short story.  I think this one turned out pretty well, but as always, you get to be the real judge.  Writing is like Jimi Hendrix's music -- most of the fun's in the feedback, so let me know what worked and let me know what didn't. 

I'm still working on another one (in hopes of building some enthusiasm I'll give you the title - "Pray For Agatha, Burning In Hell") but who knows if I'll get it done in time.  I'm also planning on a bunch of horror book reviews, so hopefully I'll get that done, too.

Meanwhile, if you want more stuff to read after this, here's our table of contents for fiction:

My stuff:
665 + 1

This one went through a bunch of different titles while it was in progress.  First I was going to call it "The Small Hours,"  and then I was going to call it "What Happens At 11:13," and "The Long Minute" was also in the running.  But finally I decided upon...


                Casey poked out Richie's number again.  Her thumb stung as it stabbed at the digits; she bit her nails when she was nervous, and she'd really done a job on several of them.   There was a smear of blood on her phone, right on Richie's redial.

                Richie still didn't answer.   She didn't leave any voicemail because if the three she'd already left didn't make her point, what was the use?   She considered calling Raymond again, but chances were he wouldn't answer, either, and she hadn't liked calling him in the first place.  Nobody likes calls after midnight, and if Richie not showing up for his shift was the reason, Raymond would likely fire him.

                Casey set the phone down, not knowing what to do.  The late shift at a convenience store was already dangerous enough, and it had been expressly stated that she wasn't supposed to work alone.   She wondered if she'd get in more trouble for trying to hold down the shift by herself, or for just turning the sign on the door to "closed," shutting off the lights and the FuelzMart sign, and locking up.   Raymond was kind of a dick but he'd forgive her, after bearing down on that "girls aren't supposed to work alone" policy from corporate.   Usually she found it annoyingly sexist, but since it might work to her advantage in this case, she was a little less the suffragette. 

                Still, Raymond considered her "badass" enough to work overnights -- a shift not usually open to females at all -- so part of her didn't want to wimp out and bail early.  And what if Richie finally did show up?  He'd freak.

                She checked the clock on her phone again.  1:45.  More than four hours until the morning shift came in.  And Richie was almost two hours late.

                Paul, from the earlier shift, had hung around an extra half hour to wait with her, but he'd finally had to leave to get some sleep for another job he worked in the morning.  Paul got precious little sleep as it was, and he had kids at home, trying to raise them by himself after his wife died of cancer.  Casey always felt bad for him, a guy his age still working at a place like this.  And it was just one of three shit jobs he had.    She knew how rough a schedule like that was from her college days, which had ended just a few months before.  She hoped she'd find a better job soon and not end up like him, but so far no one seemed very interested in biochemistry majors who'd gotten B's and C's.   Paul was a weary, sweet man, and probably would have sacrificed a whole night of sleep if Casey hadn't insisted that she was okay, she'd be fine, and Richie would drag his ass in soon and then boy would she kick it. 

                The door opened and she looked up hopefully, but it wasn't Richie.  Some tall, lanky trucker, heading to the back.   He wasn't one of the regulars; she'd have remembered him, because he was frighteningly thin and looked nearly albino. She sighed and tried biting her nails again and winced when they weren't there.  Hopefully he'd get what he was after and get gone.   Sometimes truckers liked to get flirty, and they didn't mean anything bad by it but what might be cute in broad daylight with a store full of people came across as threatening at 2 a.m. with no witnesses except the closed-circuit camera.    And she'd seen enough footage from those "Most Shocking Crimes Caught On Tape" TV specials to know those cameras didn't stop the crazy ones from doing Jack F. S.

                She stared up at the television, which was playing some cheap ghost-hunter show.   Those usually gave her the creeps but she'd seen them all before so the familiarity was comforting, and ghosts had nothing on some psycho killer rapist who might come in.   She looked through the front windows.  A couple of drunk-acting frat boys were filling up their car, laughing, and she hoped they wouldn't come in.  More-than-one-frat-guy was the worst; they'd feed off each other and think they were some Tosh.0 comedy team, even though they were just obnoxious instead of funny.  Just drive away, she thought, watching them.  One guy stepped over so the gas nozzle was clamped between his legs and acted like he was fucking his car, and his sidekick howled like this was brilliant stuff.  She could hear the whooping through the glass, drunk-volume.  Yeah, drive away, please.

                The trucker came up to the counter and laid out his purchases: bottle of Coke, Butterfinger bar, container of coffee, three little bottles of 5 Hour Energy, and two Slim Jims.  Stimulant, stimulant, stimulant, stimulant, protein.   He looked like he needed all of it, like some weary skeleton roaming the night.  She smiled at him and he twitched kind-of-a-smile back, civil but uninterested and awkwardly socialized.   She rang up his items and bagged them.  "Anything else?" she asked.

                "This'll do 'er," he said, handing over some cash.   He took his change, mumbled a thanks, and left.  Outside the frat boys finished filling up, got in their car, and went away.

                Around an orange-pink streetlight big bugs were dogfighting, or doing some entomological square dance; at least somebody was having a good time tonight.   She checked the time again.   1:53.   Shit.   She tried calling Richie again, got nothing.  Something must be wrong.  He'd been late a couple of times, but only by like five minutes.  He knew she wasn't supposed to work alone, and knew the place spooked her even with him here.   They got plenty of weirdoes and they spooked Richie, too, but he was athletic-looking enough to keep them at bay, even if he was secretly scared of confrontation.   Where could he be?   If he had car trouble or something he would have called.  The store'd been having problems with its land line for a couple of days but Richie had her cell number.  She was torn between being mad at him and worrying if he was okay.

                The ghost-hunter show went off and another came on.  Another car pulled up to the pumps and a woman got out, filled up, and left.  A police car sped by with blue lights flashing.   A few minutes later there was another.  Accident somewhere.  Hopefully not Richie.

                Then some wiry, sweaty guy pulled up in a rattletrap car and came in.  He nodded at her and laughed and waved, his eyes bright and crazy, the white showing all around them.  Great, she thought, but nodded back.  He loped over to the potato chip section and walked back and forth in front of it, looking.  Maybe a tweaker, she thought.  They can't sleep so they stay up and eat, and their nerves burn it off as fast as it comes in.   He had short, damp-looking black hair and a white tee shirt advertising some radio station, and saggy jeans with one of those wallet-chains that looked total douchebag on anybody but bikers, where they still looked douchebag but with an excuse.

                He paced, staring at the junk food, ducking his head around, and Casey thought, we don't have that big a selection, squirrel, don't make a night of it.   She tried to watch the ghost-hunter show, worried that if he saw her watching him he'd use it as an excuse for conversation.

                Minutes passed and still he lingered, and she worried that he was trying to make up his mind about something more serious than snacks.  She wished someone would pull up for gas, just in case, but there was no one.

                Finally he snatched up a bag of Cheetos, then went over to the drinks.  Oh hell, a great beverage debate now, too.   She nibbled at one of the nails she had left.  Casey was a very pretty girl, long wavy brown hair and big light blue eyes, but she despaired of ever having pretty hands, not unless she found a new nervous habit.   Better than smoking, anyway.  Richie smoked, and he was always having to step out and smoke one at the wrong moment.  Like, if he was here tonight, he'd probably be out puffing a butt now.

                The guy came up to the counter and set down his Cheetos and Faygo juggalo juice and smiled at her.  "Tah-dah!" he said, like it was a magic trick.  His eyes were jittery with abnormal glee.

                Casey smiled and started ringing him up.

                "Nice night, huh?" he said.

                "I've had better."

                "Oh?  Anything wrong?"

                Great, I made conversation, she thought.  I need to just learn to nod.

                "Just tired," she said.

                "Oh," he said.  "When do you get off?"

                "Six," she said.  "That'll be five dollars and sixty cents."

                "Sure," he said, digging a wad of cash out of his pocket and sorting through it.  "Six, huh?  Ways off 'til six.  Maybe you need a break.  Is it just you here?"

                "My co-worker's around," she said.  Around Earth, somewhere.  Presumably, still.  Better your ass thinks he's in the back room, though.

                "Take you a break, then," he said, smiling too big, handing over six ones.  He had so many ones it looked like he'd mugged a stripper.

                "Maybe I will," she said, passing him his change.  "Have a nice night."

                He nodded and picked up his stuff.  "Hey," he said, tearing open the Cheetos and extending the bag.  "Cheeto?"

                "No thanks."

                He rattled the bag.  "Sure?  Breakfast of cham-peens!"  He laughed, too loud and too sharp, a choking cluck of a laugh, like something thick struggling down a drain.  The sound of it made her hate him even more.

                "I'm sure.  Thanks anyway."

                He nodded.  "Your loss.  Cheetos are awe-sommmme!"   He crammed a fistful of them in his mouth, made a face, and shook the bag at her again, raising his eyebrows.  Jeez, fella, give it a rest, she thought, shaking her head.  He shrugged, waved, and walked outside.

                Casey breathed a sigh of relief.  Weirdo.  Harmless, but shit.

                The guy didn't leave, though.  He stood there, leaning against the building, eating Cheetos, maybe watching the bugs dance.   He opened the Faygo and started drinking.  "Damnit, dude, get in your fucking goober-mobile and go home," she whispered to herself.  She checked the time.  2:20.  Just for the hell of it, she tried Richie's number again, got nothing.  This time she left another voice-mail, "Damnit, Richie, where are you?  Call me back!" and hung up.

                Another cop car went streaking past, strobing.  How many cops did this town have, anyway?  Jesus.

                Weirdo-boy was still standing there, eating.  He stood like he was grooving to some music nobody else could hear.  What if she needed one of those cops?   Would any be left?   Could she call 911 and report an oddball snacking in the parking lot?  "Would you please leave?" she hissed to herself.

                The guy started banging his head on the front window.  Not violently, just bang, bang, bang while he leaned against it.  She didn't think he'd break the glass or anything, but it was still the kind of thing you didn't do.   She wasn't going to go out and tell him to stop it or anything, but jeez.  Bang, bang, bang.  She wondered if she should lock the door.  The guy's hair was leaving grease-smears on the window, like a giant's fingerprint.

                After a few minutes he finished his Cheetos and Faygo, kicked himself away from the wall, and came back into the store.  Shit.   "Hi again!" he laughed.  "I'm Gus, by the way."

                Casey nodded.  Fuck you, Gus.

                "And you are... Casey!" he said, peering at her nametag.  "Casey Jones!  Casey and the Sunshine Band!"  He laughed.  "Sorry, I bet you get that a lot."

                Not really, she thought.  Most people aren't that corny or obnoxious.  But she just shrugged.

                "Really, though, I like that name.  Casey at the bat!   One of those names that can be a guy's name," he pointed in one direction, "or a girl's name."  He pointed in the other.  "Is it short for Cassandra?"

                "No, it's not short for anything," she said.  "It's just Casey."

                He nodded.  "That's cool, that's cool.  Hey, I gotta wash my hands."  He held them up.  "Cheeto dust!"

                "Restroom's right back there," she said, pointing.

                "Thanks, Casey, said Gus!" he said, then headed toward the back, a cheesy guy sucking at his cheesy fingers.

                She watched him go.  They had a hatchet behind the counter.  She'd asked Paul about it once and he said the day-shift people sometimes used it to trim back saplings from growing up around the dumpster.  She located it, just in case.

                Gus returned from the bathroom, smiling and displaying his hands.  "All clean!" he said. "Reminds me of that joke."

                Casey nodded.  I'm not asking what joke, so stop fishing.
                "You know the joke?" Gus asked, grinning.  His teeth were the color of smoker's snot, like they had skin on them.

                Casey shrugged, looking back at the TV, which was flashing crime scene photos.  She felt like she was seconds away from being in one, too.

                "There's this guy, goes to the doctor.  He says, 'Doc, you gotta help me!   My you-know-what is turning orange!'"

                Casey frowned at the TV.  Great.  Gus thinks jokes about '"you-know-whats" are appropriate to tell girls he doesn't know at two in the morning.  Gus is a class-A fuckup.  Gus has something bad wrong with him.   Nobody was in the parking lot.

                "The doctor says, 'Well, have you been doing anything unusual lately?'  And the guy, he says, 'Nope!  Just what I always do!  Eating Cheetos and watching Cinemax After Dark!'"   Gus barked too-loud laughter and slapped the counter, and Casey winced, both from the crudity of the joke and because he hurt her ears.  She glanced out at the empty parking lot again.  Even the highway was free of traffic.  She was alone in the world with Gus.

                "Get it?" Gus  laughed, snorting.

                "Yeah, I get it," she said.

                "Dude was jacking his dick.   That's hilarious," Gus giggled.

                Casey said nothing.   The hatchet was right there.  Blue rubber-covered handle.  What would it feel like, impacting?

                "Course nine out of ten guys do it, and the tenth one's a liar," Gus said.  "I'm the liar!" 

                The parking lot was still empty.  No traffic.  Bugs at a boil around the light like fizz in a bottle.

                "So are you," he said.

                Casey looked at him.  "Huh?  So am I, what?"

                "A liar," Gus said.  He had a weird little smirk.  "Why'd you tell me your co-worker was around here somewhere when he isn't?"

                "He is!" Casey said, a coldness uncurling inside her.

                Gus's smirk spread wider.  "Not so!  Richie, that's his name, isn't it?   Richie?"  Gus spread his hands out to present the store.  "Richie's not here!"

                "How do you know Richie's not here?  How do you know his name?"

                "I come in here before.  A few times.  Sometimes I didn't come in, just parked out front and looked through the window a while. You didn't notice me, but I noticed you-oooo!"  He laughed and spiraled a pointing finger at her.  "I noticed you a lot.   You're very noticeable.  Really pretty.  I was kind of jealous of Richie, getting to hang out all night with you, four nights a week.  Dude was rockin' with Dokken!"   He laughed, the guh-huh-huh of a funhouse clown as it leapt at you from the dark.

                "I think you need to leave now," Casey said.  She looked for her cell phone to back her up, like she might call the cops, but it wasn't there.   Had Gus taken it, maybe while she was staring at the TV, trying to freeze him out?   It had been right there.  She checked the floor to see if it had fallen.  No.

                "You don't want me to go," Gus said.  "There's bad stuff going on tonight.  Did you see all those cop cars?  Wow.  Must be killers out there or something.  I can't leave you alone here.   Wouldn't be right."   He waved a hand at the night.  "Town's falling apart out there!  Escaped maniacs!"

                "Did you just take my phone?"

                "Me?  No.  Phone?   What'd it look like?"

                "I'm the liar," Casey remembered him saying a minute ago.  Yeah, you are.   When he'd slapped the counter, that's when he'd taken it.

                The hatchet was there.  If she picked it up the gas pedal would go to the floormat on this thing, force it to go ugly.   Maybe if she waited, somebody would come in.  Maybe one of those cops.  That cliche about them and doughnuts?  It was grounded in fact.

                "It's okay, I'm a nice guy.  I'm not gonna do nothin',"  Gus said.  "Don't be all nervous.  I'm the one nervous, talking to a pretty girl."  He laughed.  "Sorry, I'm screwing this up, aren't I?"

                It was screwed up before you got here, she thought.  You're making it a nightmare.  She looked outside;  a car went past, now that she wanted one to stop.  She looked at her hand and it was a trembling, gnawed-on thing, incapable-looking.

                "I'd like you to leave now," she said.  "Give me back my phone and go."

                "I don't haaaave your phone.  And I can't leave you alone here with killers roaming the night.  I'm a nice guy."  He grinned, rocking back and forth.

                "If you were a nice guy you'd leave when I ask," she said.

                "Ordinarily I would, but these are special circumstances," Gus said.  "You're alone and crazy things are going on.   Richie's maybe dead, even."


                "Well, why else would he not be here?  He seemed like a nice guy.  I hate him 'cuz I'm the jealous type, but, he seemed nice."  Gus rolled his eyes.

                Casey felt a chill and looked out at the parking lot again.  Empty.  And she'd parked around back, the way employees were supposed to, to leave more space in front for customers.  She wouldn't be able to beat Gus back to her car.  And the stockroom didn't have a lock on it.  And the store's landline phone was out.  But she suddenly felt sure Gus had done something to Richie, just to spend time alone with her.  Gus wasn't just a weirdo, he was a full-blown psycho, too crazy to even maintain his cover.

                "Did you do something to Richie?" Casey asked.

                Gus frowned.  "Me?  Naw!  Naw, I'm a nice guy.  I'm just saying somebody probably did, since he's not here.  Otherwise he wouldn't leave you here alone.  I mean, I won't.  Even if you don't like me, I'm gonna stay here and look after you.  I'm your friend even if you don't want to be mine."   Gus grabbed some candy and put it on the counter and dug a dollar out of his pants.  "I need some Skittles."

                It was so absurd Casey almost laughed.   This twitchy bastard is so unaware of how terrifying he is that he takes a snack break.  Almost by reflex, Casey rung it up.  It'd be nice to turn this back into a normal business transaction, forget about that hatchet for a minute.  Gus hadn't really done anything to justify going for it yet but he could explode into something that would require it any second.  She needed to get ready to go at a second's notice.   Could she really put a hatchet into someone's skull?   Would it sink in, like in the movies, or would it bounce off and just chip away a nasty wound?   She reached up and felt of her own skull.  It'd probably be like trying to chop into a motorcycle helmet.  In any case, there'd be blood, and a lot of it.  Casey wasn't fond of blood.  She'd greyed out at the sight of cut fingers before.

                But she really didn't want Gus anywhere near her.  He was getting more intolerably creepy by the second, and jittery, like he was building energy for some purpose.  Her hand was shaking when she put his change on the counter, refusing to put it in his hand and make any kind of skin-on-skin contact.

                Gus tore open the bag with his teeth and shook it at Casey.  "Skittle?"

                She shook her head no.

                "Eat too many Skittles, they'll give you the shittles!  Crap the rainbow!"  Gus said, then laughed that dumb drain-clog laugh again, too loud.  "My friend Mike, man, I used to sneak a few Skittles into his bag of M&Ms, and he'd be eating them, you know, just eating 'em, mmmm, M&Ms, like, and then he'd get this chewy one!  HA!   He'd gross the fuck out, like!"

                Casey nodded, and looked out at the parking lot again.  Nothing.  She didn't have her phone so she didn't know what time it was now.  There was a clock in the store but Raymond was lazy about changing its batteries so it had run down at thirteen after eleven, an absurd time.  Absurd.   On the TV some smiling idiot was telling her how great some scratch-removal product was.  Somebody was counting on people being up late, worrying about scratches on their dining room table in the wee hours of the morning.  Number one cause of insomnia!  If Richie was here, she'd have made that joke.  He'd have laughed, probably acted out such a person's fretting.  It'd have been funny.

                Instead, there was Gus.  Dumb fucking grin Gus.  Nice Guy Gus, gonna make her split his dumb grin with a hatchet.

                "Mike died, though," Gus said.  "Somebody went over him real good with a hammer and then cut him all apart, left the pieces on some dirt road a couple hundred miles from here.  Cops never found out who did it."  Casey glanced at Gus and he had the same dumb smile on his face, maybe a little smaller.  He was twitching, too, all fidgets. "Bummer.  Ol' Mike was a good dude, most of the time.  But, just goes to show you, maniacs walk the night.  That's how come I gotta stay and protect you."  He slapped a handful of Skittles into his mouth and said, while chewing, "Gotta wonder if all those cop cars were going to whatever happened to Richie."

                "Don't say that!" Casey snapped.

                Gus held his hands out.  "I'm not saying they are, I'm just saying.  Something's going on, right?  All those cops?  Breaker one-nine!  Murder in progress!"

                "Stop trying to scare me," Casey said.  "In fact, get out of the store.  Give me back my phone and leave!"

                Gus sighed and wagged his head.  "I thought we'd established..."

                "We didn't establish shit.  You get out of here and I'll lock the place up and I'll be fine.  I don't need you looking after me."

                "Locking up would be a good idea, but I'll stay here with you," Gus said.  "You want the truth, I'm scared, too.  We should lock up."

                "There is no WE!" Casey shouted.  "Get out!"

                "Can't do it.  There's maniacs all over.  Something's happening out there, Casey.  I was trying not to scare you, but the town is going crazy.  Maniacs, all over!   Cutting people up and shit.  Raping people, pulling their guts out..."   He bared his teeth and bugged out his eyes.

                "And you decided to wander out into it and buy some fucking juggalo-bait.   You're so scared and Cheetos and Faygo are worth risking your life for?  Not buying it.  Give me my phone and get out!"

                "I came here because I like you," Gus said.  "I figured you needed protecting.  That Richie guy obviously couldn't do it."  Gus laughed and flung his arms out like he'd made some kind of big point, and Casey was being ridiculous for trying to deny it.   "Why do you have to make it so hard?   Can't I just be a nice guy?"

                An SUV pulled up to the pump outside.  Casey headed for the door but Gus blocked her.  His eyes were bugged out and darting.  "Don't go out there!  That's probably one of the maniacs!"

                Casey watched a heavyset man get out of the SUV and start gassing it up.  She thought about cutting off the pumps so he'd have to come in to complain, but Gus grabbed her arm and came behind the counter with her.  "I'll be Richie," he said, whispering in her ear. "If he comes in we'll just act like normal, you're Casey and I'm Richie and we're just doing our night-shift stuff, tra-la-la-la-la, and maybe he'll go away and won't try to kill us."   Gus squeezed her.  "Damn you smell good.  Anyway, don't be scared, if he does any maniac stuff, I'll take care of him."  He giggled, all crawly nerves.   Casey stiffened, trying to recoil even while he had a grip on her, and she hoped he didn't see the hatchet under the counter.  She glanced over and it was back in the shadows and behind a bottle of hand lotion some other employee had stashed there.  Casey thought, I hope Gus has no sudden use for lotion, and suddenly she wanted to vomit. 

                He smelled nasty, swampy, stale laundry and old tangy smoke, sour milk, baby oil, all cocktailed into Gus-funk.  It wasn't strong, as a smell, but still made her choke just because it was his.  His hand on her arm felt sticky and greasy.

                The SUV driver finished up, got back in, and drove away.  Taillights the color of heartbreak, going smaller into the night.

                "Whew, close one," Gus said.  Casey shook him away and stepped away from him.

                "Don't touch me!" she snapped.

                "Sorry about that, it was an emergency," Gus said.  "I thought that guy was one of them.  You never know.  Everybody seems normal at first.  That's how it works.  Nobody just walks around with a chainsaw saying 'Hi ho, I want to wallow around in your organs!'   That'd be stupid."

                "No, they'd pose as a nice guy," Casey said.  "A protector of women."

                Gus clucked his tongue, clock-clock-clock.

                "Get out from behind the counter," Casey said.

                "But I'm gonna be Richie."  Clock-clock-clock.

                "You're not Richie and you don't work here.  If my boss sees you behind the counter on the tape, you'll be in big trouble and so will I.  Customers coming behind the counter is step one in robbery."

                "Oh, shit, I didn't think about that," Gus said, and went back around to the customer side of the counter.  "I don't want to get you in trouble, Casey.  I want us to be friends, okay?"

                Incredible, Casey thought, this putz still thinks he has some kind of chance.  Is this obliviousness something he's had to develop as a defense mechanism, just to get through life?  His personality's so awful he's had to just refuse to even acknowledge rejection, since that's all he ever gets?   She couldn't imagine anyone ever feeling comfortable around Gus.  Spend more than thirty seconds around his twitchy toxic energy and you become desperate to flee.  That speedfreak, wrong-headed glee in his eyes was like staring into the countdown clock of a bomb, down to the run-don't-walk numbers.

                "Tell you want," Gus said, "anybody else comes, I'll go over there, by the magazine rack, like I'm checking out the cars-and-titties magazines or something, and if the guy comes in and he's a maniac, I'll come in behind him and stab him in the kidney.  They go down like in an instant, you do that.   So don't worry, I'll keep you safe."

                Stab him in the kidney.  Gus had just told her he had a knife.  And knew how fast a kidney-sticking would drop someone.  Important information to have.  Now she was even more hesitant to face off against him with the hatchet.  He was armed.  She looked at his pockets; his pants were saggy so she couldn't tell much about what might be in them.

                "You sure your knife can reach a kidney?" Casey said.

                "Aw yeah.  They're just, like, right there."  Gus cupped his back, like a pregnant woman showing off her baby-bump.

                "I don't know, there's a lot of fat," Casey said.   "Sure you can get through a Southern-grown love-handle?   You need a pretty long blade."

                Gus whooped and dug in his front pocket.  She saw a rectangle briefly outlined as he dug -- my phone  -- and then he fished out a pearl-handled lock-blade designed to resemble a steer's horn.  He snapped it open, long and wicked, then closed it and replaced it.  "Halfway to a machete, that is.  It's beyond the legal limit but cops'll usually let you slide on that as long as they don't find weed or something on you, too."  Gus grinned, stupidly pleased.

                Casey wasn't comfortable with people who were in a position to know what cops usually do.  But at least she'd gotten a look at what she was dealing with.  Nasty-looked thing, looked thinned down from frequent sharpening.  Yeah, that hatchet was going to be a last-ditch move.   Outside a car rolled by but didn't stop.  Then the street was quiet.

                "So how's your summer been?"  Gus asked.  "Do anything fun?"

                Casey wanted to bray with madwoman laughter.  Oh my Lord, Gus, I just do not  believe you!  Hope springs eternal and the world is your trampoline!  "Not much," she said.

                "What kind of stuff do you like to do?  I bet you water-ski.   I can see you, water-skiing."   Gus got the dumbest happy smile on his face, held a hand in front of him, and swayed back and forth.

                "Never been," Casey said.  She had been, once, with her cousin Sherri, but telling Gus that would have been conversation.  She hadn't liked it much, anyway.  Casey liked things she was already good at.

                "Aw, man.  I coulda swore.  Guess I was just wanting to see you in a bikini."

                Casey looked at the TV.  Some artist's rendering of a UFO landing.

                "You got a bikini?"

                Some guy the caption said was professor of astronomy explained something.  He looked adamant.  The  UFO in the  picture either definitely did or definitely did not exist.

                "Huh?  Say?"

                "Not on me," Casey said, refusing to look away from the screen.

                Gus snorted.  "Huh!  Not on me!  Heehee!  You are such an awesome chick."  Out of the corner of her eye Casey watched him pace and dig in his pocket, maybe playing with the knife, or maybe something else she didn't want to think about.  "You really smell good.   Damn.  What perfume do you wear?"

                "Just deodorant."

                "Really?  Wow.  I don't know what brand it is but I'd just about eat it.  Damn."

                He wants to eat me, Casey thought.  She glanced at the parking lot again.  Woefully empty.  They were in that dead spot of the night when hardly anyone was out.   The dead clock still said 11:13.  It's always 11:13 here in Hell.   How long had Gus been here?  Maybe twenty minutes but it felt like hours.  When would the morning shift show up?  God, let them be early!  Right now would be good.

                "I don't mind telling you, you smell so good you got me stiffdicked," Gus said, with a sly little smile.

                "Well, you should mind telling me that!" Casey yelled.  "You're disgusting!  Get out of here!  Now!"

                "Jeez, you should be flattered," Gus said, shifting from one foot to the other.  "I wouldn't even have told you except I was feeling like we were kind of getting to be friends.  I feel comfortable with you, I can talk about things."

                "You can't talk to me about anything and I'm not your friend!  I want you to get out of here, right now!"   Casey put her hand on the hatchet under the counter, not showing it yet.

                "You'd send me out there, when the night is filled with maniacs?"  Gus said, looking sidelong at her, playing hurt-little-boy.

                "Damn betcha!  Right now!  Get out!"  He stood there, staring. "GO!" Casey yelled.  "NOW!  Right NOW!  Get OUT!"

                Gus shook his head.  "You won't even give me a chance."   He looked like he might cry.  "You don't even care.   I did all this for you, you don't know what I did, everything I did for you and you don't even care if I'm all chopped up by maniacs..."

                "The only maniac is you!   Just get out of here, go back to your house and lock yourself in if you're so scared of crazy people."

                "But something will happen to you.  Somebody scary will come in."

                Casey laughed, and felt crazy.  Her hand closed around the hatchet. "Somebody scary already came in, and it's you, Gus!  There is nobody scarier than you!"    Another police car streaked past outside, going the other way this time, lights strobing like a pinball machine on full tilt.   Casey wanted to yell for them.

                "Noooo, no, no, I'm not scary!   Casey, I'm not scary.  I'm a nice guy!  You would totally fucking like me, if you just gave it a chance.  I wouldn't hurt you, babygirl.  I want to make you feel good."

                Casey gave an involuntary shriek of revulsion.

                Gus laughed.  "What?  I'll prove it.  You can stand at the counter and I'll get down behind it and make you feel real good."

                "The only way you could make me feel good is to get the fuck out of here, you sick, psycho son of a bitch!"

                Outside a semi-truck pulled up to the diesel pumps.    Gus didn't notice it because he was too busy getting upset, stepping back and forth and pinching at himself.   He laughed nervously.  "Man, this isn't going at all like it played out in my head.  Not at all.  What are you, like, a lesbian or something?"
                The trucker climbed down from the cab and went to the pump.  Casey tried not to look at him.  "No, I'm not a lesbian.  You're just such a fucking creep."   Casey wanted to engage Gus in an argument so he wouldn't notice the trucker.  She took her hand away from the hatchet and rested it next to the controls for the pumps.

                "Me?   What's wrong with me?" Gus asked.

                "I don't have enough time to tell you," she said.  "How about everything?  Start from there and run  wild with it!"

                "Jeez," Gus said, pacing.  He slapped the magazine rack and growled in frustration.  "Okay, maybe I'm not good at talking to pretty girls.  I get nervous.  I thought about you so much, played this out in my head so much, so when it didn't go like I planned, I guess I didn't recover well... said some dumb things..."

                The trucker got the nozzle in his truck and the numbers started rolling.  Give him just a minute, Casey thought,  a few more seconds so he'll know it's not just a dead pump.

                "It's partially your fault, you know," Gus said.  "You aren't the sweet girl I thought you were.   No offense, but you are not the girl I was jerking off to."

                Casey laughed.  She couldn't help it.  As horrible as the whole situation was, it was even more ridiculous.  Her lifespan might be a matter of unpleasant seconds right now but she was being confronted with not being the girl Gus jerked off to, like that was supposed to disappoint her.  No offense!  She laughed harder and snapped the diesel pump off.  There.   He'd have to come in now to see what was wrong. 

                "I hate to say it, Casey, because I love you, I do, but you really make me mad."  Gus was digging in his pocket, maybe out of nervousness, maybe going for the knife.  "Girls like you.  A guy can be so nice, risk his life, and you always like somebody else.  You like guys who'll treat you crappy.  I would lick your butt and you'd just send me out to the maniacs.  That's disappointing.  Really fucking disappointing."

                Here he comes.  The trucker was walking toward the building.   Gus still had his back to the door, and his face was changing, all the fakey nice-guy smile gone, and now it was screwed up and bitter.  Some dam had burst inside of him and now he was flooding with an unhappiness he wanted to make her pay for.   She didn't know if Gus had killed Richie -- she was pretty sure he had, after all that talk of "you don't know what I did for you" -- but she felt sure he'd kill her now.  He wouldn't be able to deal with the rejection any other way.

                And then the trucker was in the store, a big guy with a red cap and a Metallica tee shirt.  His face was covered with thick white-and-black stubble, like a face full of static.  Gus jumped and stared at him, looking panicked.  The trucker ignored him and looked at Casey.  "Hey, ya'll's pump ain't workin'.  It cut out on me."

                "This guy's a psycho!" Casey yelled, pointing at Gus.  "Help me!  He's been scaring me, and he won't leave!"

                "Uh?" the trucker said, looking at Gus.  "What the hell?"

                "Dude, I don't know what she's talking about.  I just came in to buy some Skittles and she starts yelling crazy stuff at me," Gus said, holding his hands up.  "She's on drugs or something."

                "He's lying!" Casey said.  "He's a whackjob.  He stole my phone and he may have done something to my co-worker.   He never showed up tonight and this guy keeps saying he's probably dead.  Just keep him away from me, let me lock up and get in my car..."

                "You botherin' this girl?" the trucker said, turning on Gus.

                "Look out, he's got a knife in his pocket!" Casey said.

                "She's full of shit, man," Gus said, suddenly getting whiney.

                "You threaten this girl with a knife?" the trucker asked.

                "Fuck, what knife?" Gus said.

                "He didn't exactly threaten me, he just said he could stab somebody if they came in.  He thinks maniacs are running around out there," Casey said.  "He's been talking crazy all night.  Let's just go out and I'll lock up..."

                "I ain't likin' this botherin' girls business," the trucker said.  "Ain't havin' that, no sir."

                "I wasn't bothering anybody, I just bought some stuff and she starts talking all kinds of crazy stuff about her phone and her co-worker," Gus said, then clock-clocked his tongue again.

                "She ain't look crazy to me," the trucker said.  "You, though, man, you look like all kindsa shit wrong with you, boy.   You all... jackin' around and shit"  The trucker did a twitchy dance move, imitating Gus's jankiness.  "You bother this girl, son, I'll send you home carryin' pieces of ya'se'f in your pockets."

                "Hey, fuck you, man, I was just shopping," Gus said.  Clock-clock-clock.

                The trucker looked at Casey with a big laugh.  He was missing a couple of teeth on the bottom, and his eyes were the bright, empty blue of a TV screen after the VCR ran out of tape.  Casey decided he was on some long-hauler dope, real mean 'phetamines.  His hat, Casey noticed, read "YOUR A IDIOT," and a remote part of her noted she'd be laughing her ass off at that if the air wasn't so thick with violence.  "You hear this pecker?  'Fuck me,' he says.  Well, if that ain't a big box of goddamnits overturned and shaken!"   He laughed, a harsh whoop.

                "Look, I'm sorry," Gus said, backing up.

                "Sorry's for carelessness.  Sorry's not for intentional-but-done-got-caught," the trucker said, breathing deeper and sounding joyful that he was going to get to beat somebody up.  His fist was a big, squared-off thing, a demolition hammer.

                "Don't hit him," Casey said.  "Just get him outside and let me lock up..."

                The trucker waved a shushing hand at her and kept grinning at Gus.  "You know you in some damn trouble now, don'tcha boy?  C'mere, I'm gonna soften your face up for ya."  He laughed, almost a giggle.  "You already ugly, but now you gone be flat hard to look at."

                "Stay the hell away from me!" Gus yelled, pulling out his knife.

                "Uh-HUH!" the trucker barked.  "You said you didn't have no knife!   Uh-huh, uh-huh!  Lied about everything, didn'tcha?  Lie-tellin' son-of-a-BITCH!"

                Gus tried to edge toward the door but the trucker stepped in the way, pulling a knife from his belt.  Casey's disreputable Uncle Josh had one like it, a Sharpfinger from Schrade, a small but wicked little thing.  "Just let him go!" Casey said.  "Let him go!"

                "Fuck-yous have been thrown about.  Way yonder past too late for lettin' him go," the trucker said, glancing up at the clock.  "Looka there, it's eleven-thirteen!   Only eleven-thirteen?"  He looked at Casey.  "Damn, this is a long night!"  Then he turned back to Gus.  "Anyhow, eleven-thirteen's cuttin' time, motherfucker!"

                Casey wanted to scream.  Her insides were quivering so badly she didn't see how they could still be functioning.  She was cold jello wrapped in skin.  Within seconds she was going to see something she didn't know if she could stand to see.

                Gus was yelling now, and lunging, but he didn't know what he was doing and the trucker slapped his knife hand past him and then rushed in and trapped Gus's knife arm between their bodies.  Then he went to work with the Schrade.  Gus howled like nothing Casey had ever heard and she was so overwhelmed with terror she felt like she was melting.  There was a whispery shik-shik-shik, flesh parting. The trucker grunted, sticking the knife into the mid-left of Gus's chest and yanking down hard like he was playing a slot machine that had been cheating him all night.

                If he was playing for Gus's innards, he hit a major jackpot because Casey saw them gush out like escaping pythons.  There was a sound like a watermelon being split and a cascade of meaty slaps against the floor, like wet feet running down stairs.  Gus's face went instantly white as seemingly everything else in the world turned bright red, before going sparkly grey.

                As it faded, somehow she found herself sitting on the floor behind the counter.  She felt like she'd lost some time but she could see the clock on the wall and it was still 11:13.  Clock clock clock, she thought.  She'd heard that somewhere.  There was a raunchy smell in the air. Insides that were now outsides.  Cheetos, Faygo, and the shittles, she thought, and wanted to laughvomit.

                "Hey, girl, girl," a voice was saying.  "Casey.  Hey Casey."

                Gus? she thought.  Can't be Gus.   She flashed on what she'd seen happen to Gus and, no, couldn't be Gus.  Could NOT.   But he was the only one here who knew her name.

                "Hey, Casey," the voice said, and she looked up.  The trucker was leaning over the counter.  She frowned.  Oh, yeah, her nametag.  That was how.

                "Casey, you know how to get the tapes out of them cameras ya'll got?"

                She nodded.  She'd done it before when her friend Sondra had come by drunk one night and wanted to streak around the store.  Richie had dared her, she remembered.  Richie.

                "Get them tapes out and give 'em to me.  Put some new ones in after I get everything cleaned up.  Lord, there's a mess of blood that damn boy had in him, but I can get it up.  Done it a few times before."  He laughed, his eyes gleaming that dead-channel light.  The night is filled with maniacs, Casey thought.  The trucker took out two cigarettes and lit them, and Casey thought he was going to offer her one, but no, he was smoking them both at once.  Hardcore.  "Don't worry, I'll chop him up, get the meat all wrapped up and carry it out to my truck, dump the bones in a place I got a few states over."  He blew out a lot of smoke and looked into it dreamily, then turned to her again.  "Hey, you want some of the meat?"

                Casey stared at his YOUR A IDIOT hat and laughed at it like she'd wanted to.  He laughed back.  "No, I don't want any," Casey said.

                "Sure?  Breakfast of cham-peens!"  he said.

                "I'm sure," she said, amazed.

                "Your loss," he said, shrugging, and went away.  She sat there and stared at the clock.  11:13.  Wow, what a long minute.

                Casey watched her hand, reaching out and nudging aside the bottle of lotion.   The hand was amazingly steady as it wrapped around the blue handle of the hatchet.  She watched it lift it.  Was she doing it?   It was like watching somebody else, somebody who needed to let their poor nails alone.  She didn't stand so much as float up, and she felt like she was drifting as she came around the counter.

                The trucker had his back to her, bending over Gus, grunting as he sliced at something troublesome.   Padded mats, from his truck she supposed, had soaked up much of the blood.  She'd been out a while.  There was a white PVC bucket full of bloody water, and a clotted mop.  He'd taken several FuelzMart bags and laid them out beside him.  Several were bloody and full of the breakfast of cham-peens.    Gus's face was staring up, surprised, from a bunch of stuff that no longer looked like Gus or anybody else either.  Her phone lay off to the side in a nest of bloody one dollar bills.   The trucker was ignoring her, pulling at something with one hand and slicing at it with the knife in his other.  There was the back of his cap, strands of grey hair, the sunburned and creased nape of his neck, his shoulders working under the Metallica logo.  The hatchet was heavy in her hand.  

                "Here," she said, "use this."

                                                                                THE END


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